After outrunning a day on which life is noisy, you drop your keys, purse and ability to stand with a clatter on the table, and you breathe it in. It smells like clean laundry and fresh comfort. He appears at the darkened door to the theater, all plaid and wet curls, a shy smile and a confession: he made you his most gourmet dinner – grilled cheese. Roasted beet salad with herbed chèvre and tupelo balsamic reduction can’t hold a candle to processed cheese food and devotion sandwiched between two slabs of toasted bleached flour white bread.
Climb into bed and he helps you apply cortisone to the biblical plague of bug bites, a souvenir from your island weekend, and then he gathers your tired, sticky limbs and tucks you under his arm, kissing the top of your head as it falls on his chest. The Black Crowes sing She Talks to Angels over the hidden speakers.
When the day is a robber, you can oft find all you’ve lost and then some, should you only know how to look. Or be properly equipped with Kraft American Singles, and a man who loves you.